Charity | Love | Homeless | Christmas | Poetry

The Launderette

And the homeless man

Harry Hogg
2 min readDec 3, 2023
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I saw a woman in the city, she saw me, and I spoke to her. Everywhere else I’d been turned away.

She led me to a laundry and took me into a backroom. There she handed me clothes, too big, and took mine away, including my underclothes.

She returned without my clothes. She took me into the launderette and sat me down.

She sat with me but said nothing. Other conversations, murmurings, voices wearied by homeless on their streets.

An hour later the woman led me into the back room, left me momentarily, and returned with my clothes.

I cannot remember her face very well, nor do I remember much about her except the morning’s milk that was her skin.

I’m broke, along with every other homeless person.

I do remember we spoke.

“I’m a poet, “ told her.

She smiled. “Another romantic,” she replied.

“I am unknown,” I offered.

“Yes,” she responded.

She made nothing of my face. I could neither tell if she were Liberty or Muse.

Then she said, “All you poets…you love, you hope; that is all. Hold out your hand to me,” she said, which I did. She placed a Starbuck’s gift card in my hand.

“I was once a poet, too,” she said. “I wrote down my dearest beliefs, my hopes, my feelings, all the things that poets do. I lived my youth in an age of hopes and fantasies. And like you, I was touched by the finger of muse.”

From that moment I wanted to write a poem about her. The way her hair was pinned to the nape of her neck, a few short strands escaping.

She ushered me out of the launderette.

I did not say a word.

Poetry is infinitely more acceptable than poverty.

Have you ever been in love?

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